


Three of Spades, Two of Clubs

by sybilius



Series: Talking won't save you [8]
Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966)
Genre: (in one of them), Angel Eyes bullshit, Angst, But weird, Canon-Close, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Churches, Ficelet Series, Fluff, Gwitchin Constellations, Latin bullshit, Lowkey references to Hannibal, M/M, Murder, POV First Person, POV Third Person, Suicide mention, There's a little bit of everything tbh, alcohol mention, and that's angel eyes, canon-divergence, shifting pov, that's blondie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 09:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13808478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: When gambling with the desert and death-- let the cards fall where they may.A hand of five stories centered around Blondie and Angel Eyes, three dealt from the canon and after it, and two from the series divergence.





	1. take what you’re dealt

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of five ficelets that either comment on GBU canon (three of these), or present AUs or divergences to the series 'Talking Won't Save You'. Three of these are ficelets I posted on tumblr and thought were something special, and the other two are ones I wrote and added to round off the set. They're entirely unrelated, so it may be a good idea to read the chapter notes for each to find out what I intended with them. Warnings may vary as well by the chapter, so notes. 
> 
> Thanks for checking this out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pure nostalgia-trip straight out of GBU canon with a bit of my own headcanon from character interpretation. Just Blondie and Angel Eyes teaming up, exactly what's on the tin with a bit of the hatefuck chemistry that leads to _Devil's pupil gonna teach you to sight_. Blondie's perspective, third person.

The prisoner's camp has a dusty, choking indignity to it despite the issued uniforms. But it's nothing Blondie isn't used to. He'd worn a uniform like this as prisoner and soldier alike, too young and eager then to number his days by deaths. _Should have known I'd be stuck here again._

Being a criminal feels more honest.

Music. Music is somehow an ugly, torn sound in the fields of war. Blondie tugs at the stained collar, casting a glance over to the quarters where Tuco is being held.

Whatever's left of him, by now.

 _Should be happy, shouldn't I?_ Tuco put him through more than hell. But he'd given as good as he'd gotten. _I deserve just as bad. Maybe I’ll get it._

 _But not if I can help it from that sonofabitch._ Blondie had heard tell of Angel Eyes, a legend rasped in the ear of any outlaw with a mark to kill and could make his price. Blondie had thought about taking up that kind of work, in the later parts of his days hunting bounty. Losing faith in what that meant.

 _A killer by any other name. Does it really matter who pays you?_  

Blondie had stopped killing, kept getting paid. It felt worse, and yet better. _But that two hundred thousand dollars ..._ that could change all of that. It's enough for him to trail Tuco around, enough of a promise to keep the trust between them thin but present.

God knows how Angel Eyes is going to test that. Blondie wishes for a quirley, not for the first time since they'd been captured. It might very well be his last.

The music is running quiet. There's a soft moan, but it's coming from one of the prisoners rather than where they took Tuco. _Can't be a good sign._

“Get over here. The sergeant wants to see you.”

Blondie nods once. He’s not armed, and might just become another notch in the ledger of those Angel Eyes had struck down. _But I’ll go to hell before I tell him anything._

Walking into a door ready to die is more familiar, if anything, than the uniform.

He isn't expecting to be hit by a bundle of his own clothes, which still smell of the cheap incense of the abbey.

“The war’s over for you. Put these clothes on.”

He regards Angel Eyes carefully, who is looking at him with a measure of respect. _Bastard. What's he up to?_ Blondie has reason to believe Angel Eyes was a lot of things, but he was rarely a subtle liar, to other outlaws. Rarely needed to be.

“Why?”

“We’re going for a ride.”

“Where,”

“To find two hundred thousand dollars. I know the name of the cemetery, now. And you know the name of the grave”

When Blondie turns his head down, he sees the blood on the floor, the writing on the wall. He drags his foot through it experimentally, wrinkling his nose at his own curiosity.

“You’re not going to give me the same treatment?”

_This is why he's a twisted sonofabitch. Damned and evil._

“Would you talk?” his mustache curls around whatever he’s drinking. _Damned and evil and good at it._ Blondie can't help thinking it. He's thought about the line between him and someone like Angel Eyes far too often. How close he is to that edge.

“No, probably not.”

“That’s what I thought. Not that you’re any tougher than Tuco,” Angel Eyes smiles, tipping back his neck like he relishes the memory of torture. Blondie feels a shiver go through the core of him, keeping still through it.

“But you’re smart enough to know that talking won’t save you.”

Blondie keeps his face impassive, holding Angel Eyes’ gaze. He shouldn’t give a damn, after what the bastard put him through. But he has to ask, “And Tuco, is he…?”

“Mm-mm. No,” Angel Eyes stands up, reaching for the gun belt. “Not yet. But he’s in very good hands.”

“You changed partners, but you’ve still got the same deal. I’m not greedy. I’m only taking half. There’s two of us. Should make it easier than just one.”

Small comfort that he doubts Tuco is dead. If there's one thing he's learned in his dubious partnership with the sly bastard, it's that he never stays down for long. _So maybe that's why I left him out in the desert._

 _It seemed like a bad idea at the time._ This was damn worse, though.

He wants to be sure of that.

“Yeah,” he sheaths the gun deliberately, enjoying the way Angel Eyes pauses, uncertainty momentarily flaring in his eyes.

Better or worse, Angel Eyes needs him. Blondie can admit at least, that if anyone deserves his worst-- it's this sonofabitch. That settles in an uneasy certainty in his chest.

He keeps a close eye on Blondie even as he strips into his clothes. It fires up a hatred right down to Blondie's toes. _Who in God's name does he think he is?_

By the time he's pulled on his jacket, Angel Eyes is examining his own Remington. He runs a finger along its length, then sheaths it. Neither says anything as they head out into the desrt.

“Let's ride.”

Angel Eyes jerks his head towards the other horse, pulling himself onto the second with snakelike grace.

Blondie glances once doubtfully at the horse.

He follows.


	2. stack the deck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be relatively clear this moment takes place in canon, when Angel Eyes is racing Tuco and Blondie to Sad Hill cemetery. Did anyone else find it quite frankly, amazing, that they bumbled into a war camp without noticing? Truly, idiots.
> 
> Angel Eyes' perspective, odd first person. 
> 
> Murder warning applies to this chapter, though it's not that graphic. Angel is used to it, I guess :P Also, church.

The trail is as obvious as stalking a wounded man. Though stupidity could be seen as a wound unto itself. 

Making camp at Sad Hill was the aim, though it was useful to keep sight of how close they were, at least until a few miles from the graves. 

By all expectations, it should have been pedestrian, uninteresting. Simply following a particularly clumsy mark. But somehow, it was an exception. Maybe it was the pay, the next best job being just over ten thousand. Nowhere close, though the total might be near that now.  _ Quod cito acquiritur cito perit. _

Lost to memory, at least. 

It started to feel different just when Blondie and Tuco took a wrong turn into another camp. How they missed the cannon fire was truly a testament to idiocy. But there was a longer path around, a harder dig into the spurs and the hope that getting captured wouldn't kill them both. 

Blondie is too clever for that much, at least. 

The road turns into a makeshift town, perhaps sprung up around the war itself. A moment to collect supplies then. 

A wordless purchase of pemmican and bullets from the general store -- the horse wanders back and forth restlessly where it is tied. It will be time to leave it soon, too. 

Something pressing to turn back. Another part embracing the path. Strange. Perhaps it’s the stain of fire on the church at the end of the road. 

There's a moment to spare. 

The church is likely the most beautiful thing about the town. Some collected artifacts that catch the light when the door opens. There's no one here. It looks to have something of the threat of collapse upon it, marked by the fire. 

It smells of burnt wood, rather than flesh. 

Still, at the center of the sanctuary is the untouched cross, carved with Christ’s likeness. The charlatan from Nazareth himself. It's hard not to admire what he did. 

There is something which could not admit that dishonesty, as tempting as the power of others was. No. The draw to take lives was far stronger. 

A tribute, then. 

It's been so long the words might not find shape on the tongue. Still. There's that strange, almost desperate desire to try. As if those pursued, all of the ghosts and those living, could bear witness to such a moment. 

_ “Quattuor animalia singula eorum habebant alas senas et in circuitu et intus plena sunt oculis et requiem non habent die et nocte dicentia sanctus sanctus sanctus Dominus Deus omnipotens qui erat et qui est et qui venturus est.” _

“What in tarnati-” 

The shot goes through the man’s mumble with barely a breath. A sharp look reveals the corpse on the floor in the front row. Probably a drunkard. 

The Remington goes away carefully. 

That was far too unguarded, far too risky. It's been a long time since visiting a church. Should come here more often, leave blood pooling under the pews. 

A kick to his hand. A deck of cards, tied up in twine. A souvenir, then. Not sure what there is to remember about this act, but perhaps a fitting irony for a church murder. 

The desire to leave comes up just as fast as the curiosity. There may be more witnesses. 

The hope is that the murder was the only thing they saw. Or it should be the hope.  

The mirror in the front hall is dusty and cracked, but not so much that it doesn't catch the image in the light. 

The reflection is wild, grimy with the road’s paint and the shadows of the chase. It's alive. 

That's good to see. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been trying to write for a while about Angel's peculiar attitude towards himself and his hobbies. I feel like this sort of gets at that, or better than in my previous attempts. 
> 
> Latin translations:
> 
>  _Quod cito acquiritur cito perit._ \- What is easily gained is easily lost. 
> 
> _Quattuor animalia singula eorum habebant alas senas et in circuitu et intus plena sunt oculis et requiem non habent die et nocte dicentia sanctus sanctus sanctus Dominus Deus omnipotens qui erat et qui est et qui venturus est._ \- Excerpt from Revelations that speaks of Angels. This is used in the second chapter of _solitudinem_ , and I intended this to occur at least possibly in that 'verse, so as to inform that moment.


	3. ice and spade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my true attempt at a post-canon ficelet. I think it's one of my stronger works with Blondie, so feedback is appreciated :) 
> 
> Canonical character death for Angel Eyes, and sort of suicidal thoughts here. On the border. Blondie perspective, third person.

Blondie had considered going back to the cemetery from the moment he’d turned his horse, the echoes of Tuco’s curses ringing in his ears. But the chink of the gold dragged on his horse’s gait, making him feel its weight on his very back.

Blondie wanted the gold far too much.

And he had it, then.

_ For all the damn good it did me. _

He’d kept the cemetery marked in his mind, always in the periphery of his thoughts.  _ Not like I’ve got anywhere else to be. _ He’d taken a room here and there, for the first while, tried and failed to avoid getting drunk too often.

_ Wouldn’t mind something to warm me up now. _ The poncho doesn’t quite cut it in the below freezing weather, even with a coat.

It’s a strange, soft snow over the hill. Rare and deeply unsettling weather, even for the dead of winter. Blondie slides off his horse. His spurs clink and leave a rusty stain in the snow.

_ Guess I always knew I’d wind up back here. _

The graveyard’s crosses look more beaten-down, shorter, though it’s only been months gone, rather than years. The only balm in the slow walk through the winding labyrinth of slaughter is that the war is over now.

The fact that his share of the gold was given to a hospital for injured soldiers doesn’t comfort him any.

_ Won’t bring back the dead. Any of them. _

_ Didn’t do Tuco a damn bit of good, neither. _ Blondie waited too long to find out what he’d done with the gold, whether he’d taken it back to his family, started fresh. A loose mouth at a saloon dice table had gotten him shot in the back for just a third of his share. Wherever the rest was, Blondie didn’t bother to find out.

Blondie wishes he’d had the courage to visit Tuco’s grave.  _ God knows why I give a damn. _ But finding out, that had been a bad night and a worse morning, temples pounding and lost time amidst the taste of bile in his throat. Any thoughts he’d had of taking up bounty as honest work felt like they didn’t mean shit. Not even gold could change what either of them were.

_ Maybe I always knew that. _

Blondie’s footsteps bring him to a shallow grave. Where the unknown soldier’s bounty lies is still fuzzy in his memory. This grave is sharp-cut at the edges, even seen across the distance of the stone circle. The dirt layered overtop the corpse is hasty, as if kicked by a squeamish wanderer. With a brush of his own boot, Blondie’s stomach lurches at the skull of the man he shot down.

_ That won’t save you. _

_ Goddamn that smug sonofabitch.   _ Blondie swallows, trying to reach for the old anger, but there’s nothing there. Nothing except a hollow ache in his chest.

_ What the hell did he mean? _ At the time Blondie had thought it a promise of death, maybe by his hand. But the way Angel Eyes had given barbed advice, watched him carefully, trusted Blondie without a hint of hesitation –  _ What the hell had all that meant? _

He’d always given the impression of knowing, knowing what he wanted, what needed doing, what came next. _ I hated him for what he was– but I envied that. _ His gaze had even looked knowing, when Blondie had sneered at him on these very stones, knowing he had the advantage.

The knowledge in that sonofabitch’s eyes– the resigned almost-sadness of it.  It nearly stayed his hand.  _ Could have easily been me in these graves. _

_ I’m no better off. _ Blondie hunkers down, studying the part of the skull he can see. 

_ What was he other than a name?  _ Angel Eyes, whispered from lowlife to crooked barman, Angel Eyes, a rumor to the sheriffs, the man to call if you wanted a long reach and you had deep pockets.  _ Hell of a reputation to that name. _

Blondie barely had a name.  _ Never had. _

_ That won’t save you. _

_ What do I want to be saved from? _

_ Now? Not a damn thing. _

Suddenly it doesn’t seem so cold out. Blondie digs his toes in his boots to make sure he can still feel them. He brushes off the other empty socket of the skull, the rest of it long picked over by scavengers. His hands are too cold to dig through the rest of the snow– but if the corpse hasn’t been looted. He stands, an idea taking shape.  _ Bad one. _

_ Seems fitting. _

Blondie quickens his pace, weaving between the graves. He recognizes Arch Stanton’s from the ugly tree above it, rope still frayed above it.

And the shovel, of course.

It takes a few chips into the half-frozen earth, but the crack of bone thrills through Blondie’s skin. The stiff brown of Angel Eyes’ jacket spills out, which is a good sign.  _ Looters usually’d take that, right? I would. _

That thought would normally be followed by a flash of guilt, but. Not this time. Just the hollow weight in his chest and the slow chill of the now-falling snow.

The shovel hits metal.

Blondie reaches his hand through cold snow and stiff leather, closing his fingers around the Remington.

A weapon never felt more natural in his hand.


	4. the jack's gamble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might be my favourite of the five. This is a divergence to _solitudinem fecerunt, pacem appelunt_ where instead of showing up calm and collected to proverbially hand Angel’s ass to him in Ch5, Blondie makes some bad life choices, and Angel is horrified to learn he’s inclined to stick around for the fallout.
> 
> Angel Eyes' perspective, odd first person. 
> 
> Suicidal ideation, alcohol, depression, poor life choices, angst.

It shouldn’t be long.

But the fire is banked on the first night, and the second, with no sign of him.

There’s no reason to believe he was better than this – and yet.

It’s mildly disappointing.

On the third night when by now the camp should have been long-deserted– it’s then the sound of hoofbeats echo in the cave.

One hand on the Remington– no guarantee it’s him now. The horse’s gait is strangely uneven. When its shadow crosses behind the cave wall, it’s rider is slumped slightly on its neck.

What the hell happened, Blondie?

He manages to slip off, looking like hell itself, even worse than when he’d gotten drunk in that shithole town a month before.

“You’re here,” he sways slightly.

“What happened to you?” there’s more concern there than there should be.

“S’just a graze,” he stares almost levelly, like he understands.

Like he saw that this was exactly what I was afraid of. Damn him.

Damn him for knowing before I even knew.

He tries to take a step and half-stumbles, and I can’t help the movement forward to support him. The blood soaking through to his vest is mostly dry, but the wound itself is still damp. Likely with infection.

Idiot. Idiot. He needs a doctor by now.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re going to town,” he’s a bit heavy but with his cooperation he gets back onto the horse, with room on the saddle for two.

I dig in my spurs. The nearest town is a pathetic string of houses, and there’s likely no doctor.

He’s burning up by the time a room is found.

When I peel off the dirty bandages to reveal the festering gore beneath, yes it was just a graze once, but he can’t take care of himself for shit.  

The stupidity of it strikes me again,  _ bis interimitur qui suis armis perit _ , but it doesn’t beat back the pounding heartbeat, nor does it propel me to the door. Surely this is some form of divine damnation.

He barely hisses when the whiskey goes in over it, only half-awake.

“Angel,” he murmurs.

“Shut up.”

A wound like this I’d brushed off once– and almost died for it.  _ Eram quod es, eris quod sum. _

Even that seems too hopeful.

“M’sorry. Sorry for what I said. Sorry we–”

“Blondie.”

“Whatever I said that made you run –”

“You didn’t say shit that made me run, Blondie. I was afraid this would happen and it did.”

That last is perhaps too close to the truth. There’s a lot that’s true in it.

“Oh,” in some was he has no idea. Maybe that’s just the fever talking. Maybe it’s easy to overestimate him.

In either case, it was a miscalculation.

“You were afraid,” he repeats, like he doesn’t understand it.

He’s not the only one. I stand up under his bleary gaze, but I don’t head for the door.

Can’t quite do it.

“If you die because of this–” my own voice sounds cut off, foreign to myself, “I should have.”

“Should have killed me?”

So I haven’t underestimated him there.

Still, hearing it from him makes me draw sharp breath, cross the room to place one hand on his throat, no pressure. Just enough to lean in and look for the death wish in his eyes.

“Don’t. Die.”

There’s no flicker in his glance at my words.

Alright.

I loosen my grip, settle in beside him.

We wait for dawn to break with the fever.


	5. stories from the queen of diamonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally some fluff! This takes place ten years after _Sighted crows in a desert of rime_. As sweet as it gets for these two, and stargazing! I borrowed some Dene lore from this article, which hopefully has some transference to the Vuntut Gwitch’in constellation lore as well:
> 
> http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/north/northern-dene-astronomy-research-1.3393944
> 
> Blondie's perspective, third person :) Hope you liked the series!

 

Blondie has heard it called an Indian summer. Sue saw fit to laugh at that, but it had been the first September in a decade they’d seen mud rather than snow on the ground.

_ Still, the nights are getting longer by the minute _ .

Blondie watches Angel studying the glowing white river among the sea of stars. Despite the years they’d spent in Tweechik, spending time under the stars didn’t come often. Partly the weather, partly that certain quiet things still didn’t come easily to either of them.

But it made for a nice change. _ Especially when it’s still this warm _ . They sit against a rock on the edge of town, Blondie lighting up a quirley and passing the match to Angel to light his pipe. He takes a breath of the heady smoke in before turning his gaze upwards. The aurora is comparatively gentle tonight, leaving plenty of space to study the tapestry of constellations,.

“Stars still where you left them?”

“I could list them all, to kill time.”

“ _ Tempus edax rerum _ .”

“Yeah, well. That, and, it kills itself just fine.”

“Yep.”

Blondie has told him all the constellations he knows a few times over now– but there’s been at least a few new things since a few nights past.  _ You’d think we’d run out of anything to talk about _ . But it hadn’t happened yet. 

“Sue and I were out late one night, got to talking about the stars. She was saying round here they call that one  _ yehdaa _ .”

“Know what that means?”

“She was saying about a story. Of a man shot in the back,” Blondie traces out the longer arm of stars, “with an arrow. He was stealing rabbit snares.”

Angel sucks on the pipe, his smile digging into the cavernous creases of his skin, “Fitting. She tell you any more of those?”

“She’s cagey about it at first, but. I think she wants to, yeah. Said I could tell you when I asked, at least.”

Angel just nods, quiet again. There’s time enough to hear those stories, when she’s ready. The trees in the distance shiver slightly, causing Blondie to pull his coat closer in the winter wind. Angel shifts so that their sides are touching, which helps a bit.

“You know. I got used to this place years ago but it’s a testament that anything grows round here,” Angel holds up a handful of rough-cut moss from the rock, “ _ Propter vitam vivendi perdere causas _ .”

Every so often he still digs some phrase up Blondie hasn’t heard from him before.  _ But I know they’ll be time to ask later on. _ That felt like something they’d both grown into.

“You’d think we’d stop being surprised.”

Angel glances with a raised eyebrow to Blondie, who smirks. Angel shakes his head, taking out the pipe with a smirk of his own.

“I’d think that after this long you couldn’t surprise me. Yeah you're right,” then Angel smiles, quietly, that strange, almost terrifying quirk of his lips. Blondie can't help but smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, and as always, comments are appreciated, feedback of any kind :) Apparently I will make these two be a searchable tag yet!


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